


Still Life

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Minor Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Liminal (G)

Those years were both intensely real and curiously detached; beneath the end of the world, what were one’s priorities?

He thought, then: I’ll take what happiness I can. Here, between life and death. Night and day.

Dorian knelt; took the Bull’s jaw in his hand, tilted his face to see it better in the dawn light. Traced his lips with a thumb, fingers splayed across the Bull’s cheek. His throat.

Said, voice hoarse:

“Pretend this is real.”

The Bull’s lips shifted under his thumb: smile or grimace.

“No need to pretend,” he said.

Dorian trembled despite himself. Despite himself, believed.


	2. Dawn (T)

Fragments. Oh maker, guide me through the blackest night. A light, a crystal, thrumming steadily. A heartbeat. Not the maker, not the maker, but—Bull—

Dorian was bleeding sluggishly still. They had not cared to bind his wounds, those men—Venatori—

With careful hands, he was lifted. “Kadan, come on. Shit—”

“Oh,” Dorian said, thoughts struggling. “Are you fussing again?”

“I think he’s going to be alright,” Cremisius said, unseen.

“Thanks, Krem.” Bull, wry.

Gates, opening with a terrible clatter, enough to raise the dead—he should know. Out, out, into clean air, and the sky burning orange.

Dawn came.


	3. Perigee (G)

Kirkwall, Denerim, Redcliffe. The Bull drinks hard and goes to bed alone. These are long days, cold days. Southern winters are bitter, filled with nostalgia. Here Dorian sat and skipped stones across the water. “I don’t miss it a bit,” Dorian says. “Those rugs! Just throw a bear carcass on the floor and be done with it.”

Lydes, Val Royeaux, Cumberland. “Don’t put yourself out of your way,” Dorian says, wistful. The Bull tells him he won’t, like the liar he is.

The days grow longer, milder.

Nevarra. The border. Inevitably, the Bull follows his heart.

“Amatus,” Dorian breathes. Smiles.


	4. Unwilling (G)

“Why,” Dorian said, colour high in his cheeks, “must you be so—”

An expansive gesture encompassing the entirety of the Bull’s being.

“I,” Dorian said. Swallowed. “I never asked for this.”

The Bull stood like a statue on the threshold of the room. Granite. A hand on the doorframe. His expression, lit by the evening sun, was patiently quizzical.

Dorian thought, desperately: do something. The Bull? Himself?

Breathe.

“The fact is,” Dorian said, “that I find I am in love with you. Foolish of me, I suppose.”

A terrible stillness.

The Bull’s face softened.

“You’d better come in,” he said.


End file.
